


The Cultist Who Ruled the World

by JonathanSporkTheSecond



Category: Original Work
Genre: A small duck, A solitary mention of gnomes, Along with a new system of currency, Autocracy, Bad Decisions, Baking, Banter, But it's a cirus on land so I guess it's landworld, Did I accidentily just write a fantasy buddy cop story, Don't Ask, Ecological Disputes, Fantasy, Fantasy Seaworld, I remade the metric system because I felt like it, I swear it'll be a major plot point, I'll put it in the story somewhere, I've been throwing random words in the tags for the past two minutes, Investigations, It's basically gold but with a bit of authorial spray paint, Legal theft, Lovecraftian, More stairs than you'd expect but less than you'd hope, Mystery, Not a single more, Occult Shenanigans, Octopuses with Hands, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Some Humor, Some Stairs, Sporks, Teddy Bear Mechs, eventually, mafia, more tags when I feel like it, welp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonathanSporkTheSecond/pseuds/JonathanSporkTheSecond
Summary: The author got bored and vomited their guts out onto a generic fantasy world. This was the result.
Kudos: 2





	1. From the Forest

**Author's Note:**

> By all technical and legal definitions, this is a story. 
> 
> So, I'm just going to slide this text document into the site and see what happens. 
> 
> You never know.

A hummingbird - colored in muted greens and vibrant reds, with a long, black snout and eyes the shade of tar - feasts on the flowers of a rhododendron bush under the shade of a wilting oak tree. Its wings beat in a determined battle against the forces that would bring the small avian tumbling to the dirt road below. Across the road, an audible rustling exudes from a nearby pine. 

Suddenly, a streak of black materializes from its inky darkness. As it rapidly grows closer to the unsuspecting hummingbird, the raven’s claws protrude before the dark attacker, ready to snap shut like a trap used for much larger game. The hummingbird narrowly darts below the predator with the speed and grace born from a lifetime of flight. The raven quickly rights itself and prepares for another assault but when it turns around, the bird vanished. It looks to and fro but the only movement it sees is the two distant, humanoid figures walking down the road. With what could only be described as a huff, the bird flies into the forest in search of easier prey. 

Unaware of the conflict, the figures proceed down the path. The taller one draped in what appears to be a long cloak while the other wears a simple brown overcoat tailored for harsher weather. As they grow closer, more specific features can be discerned. The taller of the two wears a white, porcelain mask resembling a human face with black, pursed lips and slightly raised eyebrows partially covered by the hood of their cloak. The tall figure’s sleeved arms drift slightly behind them as they walk in a manner resembling a lost spirit. The shorter figure possesses an unshaven face with a mop of unkempt auburn hair. Upon traveling further down the road, their aggravated voices become audible.

“---sure we’re going the right way?” Speaks the shorter of the two. 

The masked figure lets out a deep, distorted sigh, as if speaking from a tunnel. 

“You are aware that this is the third time you asked that question in…” 

He reaches into his cloak with a gloved hand and withdraws an immaculate golden pocket watch. 

“...the last four and a half hours.” 

A deep pout crosses the shorter man’s face. 

“Yeah, but when we’re walking through a forest in the middle of goddamn nowhere I sure as hell don’t want us to get lost again.”

“I know perfectly well where I am going.”

“Like that time you led us into a frickin’ cave?” 

“It appeared to be a shortcut that would cut several hours off our route--.” 

“It was full of goddamn zombie bears!”

“There were only seven of them.” 

“That ain't the fucking point!” 

The taller man puts up a hand. 

“Look, if I analyze the map again will you act like an adult for once?” 

An ugly sneer crosses the shorter man’s face. 

“I don't know, will I?” 

The taller man silently stares down at his compatriot for several long moments, neither moving an inch. The taller man slowly reaches a hand into his cloak without breaking his gaze and plucks out a rolled up piece of parchment with a quiet resentment. Finally turning away, the cloaked figure unrolls the paper with a gentle touch, revealing a map. At the bottom is marked in thin black ink, ‘Lebanroost.’ 

The heavily creased paper depicts a high mountain range at its center with smaller ridges rolling horizontally across the map. At the map’s top, a large red dot adorned with a golden crown sits regally above its sapphire counterparts spread out randomly across the parchment. Multiple sloppy, black circles are seemingly hand drawn around the crown in a violent and unstable manner. The man’s gloved hand runs up a thin line near the bottom of the map, stopping halfway between the mountain and the edge of the parchment before gingerly tapping it twice. This being done nearly on top of a small indigo dot adorned with small, almost indecipherable writing and a hand-drawn tree. 

The taller man turns his head towards his companion, still carefully gripping the map. “Overpass should be within an hour’s travel from here.”

An audible scoff comes from the other man. 

“And you know that how exactly?” 

The cloaked man extends a hand towards an oak tree on the side of the road. 

“The merchant at the last outpost informed me that once we pass a particular tree, we will be within an hour’s walk of Overpass.” 

He lowers the hand towards the base of the tree, which is so far rotted through, a rhododendron bush is visible on the other side. 

“That is the tree.” 

The shorter man, slightly disgruntled but otherwise satisfied with the answer, remains silent. Neither speaks for a long while, choosing instead to survey the landscape. 

The taller figure notices that while not all the trees are as severely damaged as the one he viewed, they certainly aren’t prospering. They have wilting leaves with bark falling off in clumps like moldy orange peels. 

The shorter man registers a sudden smell he did not notice before but recognizes. The forest smells of death - of corpses with putrid flesh only flies and maggots dare approach. He finds himself hiking up his overcoat to cover his nose and mouth from the stench. 

They both notice the last feature simultaneously. The squawks and caws that accompanied the duo throughout their trek are strangely absent, leaving only the soft crunch of the dirt under their boots and the hollow wind trailing through the dead forest. 

After making a final turn around a long bend, the forest gives way to a clearing of grass untouched by the surrounding corruption with a great snow-capped mountain holding dominion over the distant horizon. Within the field stands a quaint looking town of stone and brick with a grand arch of cobble casting a vast shadow over the village like the throne of an uncaring god.

As they continue to trudge down the dirt road, which cuts through the grass like a parting tide, the shorter man speaks. 

“So just to be clear, I'll be Esteban Fritz, traveling scholar with a heart of gold and passion for adventure!” 

The taller man pinches the bridge of his masked nose. 

“Is this not the third time you have played Fritz.” 

A snort comes from the shorter man. 

“Esteban Seymour Fritz is a fully fleshed out character and with an intriguing backstory that puts every other sorry bastard to shame. Like how he carries his parents’ gambling debt and how he's on the run from the guard and how he vowed to right the world's wrongs with the backing of his fellow common folk.” 

“And this is not projecting?” 

A scowl crosses his unshaven face. 

“So what if it is? At least it's better than your character, what was it again?” 

A wide smile cuts across his face. 

“Fred Sword or something?” 

“Ed Dagger.” 

The shorter man bursts out laughing, clutching his midriff. 

“Of course it fucking was! Ed Fuckin’ Dagger! You literally only changed your last name and you didn't even change it well!” 

The cloaked man glowers at his companion. 

“I will have you know that Dagger is a perfectly suitable substitution.” 

The shorter man guffaws with renewed enthusiasm. 

“No, it fucking isn’t! I haven't heard a more unoriginal alter ego in my entire goddamn life!” 

The taller man huffs behind his stone-faced mask. 

“This coming from the man who named his sacred symbol after himself.” 

The shorter man calms down a bit, still sniggering to himself as he reaches below the collar of his coat and pulls out a necklace adorned with an odd ornament. It’s shaped like a spoon but instead of having a rounded head, it’s pronged like a fork. 

“Hey, can’t improve on perfection baby.” The man says with a crooked smile as he carefully pushes it back under his overcoat.

As they near the village’s low stone wall, barely reaching waist height, a man with a leather vest and a chrome, feathered helmet waits for them. 

“So, newcomers right?” 

The shorter man puts on a friendly smile, the kind you would give a family member whose name you couldn't quite place. 

“I'm afraid we are. It's a real shame we haven't visited this beautiful little town before.” 

The guard chuckles and pulls out a scroll and quill with a metal tip from his satchel. He unscrews a small jar of ink attached to his belt, daintily dips his quill in, and positions it before his parchment. 

“So, names please.” 

Now it is the shorter man's turn to chuckle. 

“Right, names… yeah, what was yours again?” 

The man glances up from his parchment with a slightly raised brow. 

“Quentin.” 

“Well Quentin, make sure you don’t fuck this up because this’ll be a name that'll be burned into your fricking eyeballs. My name is-” 

“His name is Jonathan Pork and mine is Edward Saber.” 

Jonathan stares at his companion as if he'd caught him consuming an unsalted baby. 

“You son of a-” 

He suddenly becomes more aware of the sheathed short sword at the guard’s side and clears his throat. 

“Yeah, my name is Jonathan… Pork.” 

The word looks and sounds like it burns his throat upon conception.

“And, uhh, I come from a long line of, uhh, pig herders. Yeah, that’s a profession that exists.” 

Probably. 

“I thankfully left as soon as I could walk and never looked back.” 

This earns a quizzical look from the guard. 

“You left your family?” 

“Well… I like to think of it more like they left me.” 

Quentin looks simply bewildered at this point. Jonathan feels his shirt cling to his chest. 

“Whhhy don’t you ask about this guy’s backstory?” 

Quentin reluctantly turns his attention to Edward, whose blank face endlessly stares back in his direction. 

“My family makes swords. They are sharp and proficient at stabbing things.” 

Quentin nods as if expecting him to continue. He does not. 

“Well, I guess you can go. Stay safe and keep out of trouble.” 

With nothing else to say, the pair continues walking towards the town. 

“Oh!” The guard yells as they were a fair distance away. “If you have anything made of wood, you might want to ditch it, just saying.” 

Passing a confused glance between themselves, the duo stride towards the stone town with the arch looming overhead, blotting out the sun.


	2. The Village of Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm using these opening summaries to write about completely unrelated things. 
> 
> Legalize jaywalking. 
> 
> But you've got to do jazz hands while you do it. 
> 
> That's what I do at least.

The sun begins to dip under the arch as the two men enter the town. As they can see from a distance, the buildings before them are composed of brick, mortar, and an outer coating of concrete, with the dark grays occasionally giving way to the worn, crimson blocks underneath. Even the roofs are devoid of the traditional deep browns of chestnut and timber, instead displaying drab, flattened roofs positioned atop their firm foundations. 

The duo continues to trek into the center of town, directly beneath the monolith that towers above them. A fountain sits there, within the shadow of a high, pillared building several dozen paces away. Its cracked angelic figurehead strains to spew its liquid into the thirsty basin below. The pool possesses a deep black shade, almost viscous as it’s enveloped in the surrounding darkness of the ashen sky. The two face each other. 

“So, the usual, right?” Jonathan asks, more than slightly disgruntled. 

“It has yet to fail us.” Edward responds. “Shall we meet back here?” 

“Yep, at like eleven or something, Jackass.” 

And the two turn their backs to each other, walking in opposing directions, traveling into the bowels of the town. Meanwhile, the cherub statue pirouetting above the pool releases a final spurt before falling silent as deep liquid roils underneath. 

\----------

Jonathan pinches the front of his undershirt and covers his nose with it. Damn smell hasn’t let up since he entered the area, even when the forest is a couple hundred yards away. It better piss off by the time he gets indoors or he’s gonna lose it. That guard wasn’t lying about the whole wood thing, he couldn’t see a scrap of the stuff. It’s all stone and shit, must’ve been a pain to haul it all here. God this fucking smell ain’t much better through the cloth. Luckily, he spots a bronze plate embroidered with an overfilled tankard hanging from one of the buildings (Did they all have to be the same color of goddamn gray). He ducks in without a second thought. 

Thankfully, the inside smells a bit better than the outside. He catches a whiff of cooked meat, fresh alcohol, and hard earned sweat. A tavern if he’s ever smelled one. It ain’t as boisterous as some of the others he’s been to but that certainly ain’t a dealbreaker. Unfortunately, the place has the same gloomy undertone that suffocates the whole dreary town. Its lighting leaves much to be desired too, with the few candles dotting the room leaving quite a few corners unlit. And while the owner apparently decided to give the walls a coat of crimson paint, a fair bit of gray peeks through where it chips. It ain’t an oppressive atmosphere per se, just a pretty hushed one. 

Not that that stopped him from walking up to the bar, plopping down on a stool, slamming his elbow on the counter, and slipping on his best smile. The noise attracts a few wary glances, but otherwise most of the folks seem content to whisper amongst themselves. Guess that means he'll have to do all the heavy lifting.

A woman in a black and white bar uniform with a deep brown braid rolling down her back strolls over to him with a casual strut. She stops as she reaches the other side of the counter and looks down at him. 

“Greetings and all that jazz, you need anything?” 

“Yeah actually.” He says, spinning around in his stool. “I’m new around here and I want to chat with some folks. Any suggestions on where to start?” 

The bartender puts a hand over her mouth and scrunches her eyebrows together. 

“I’d say your best bet would be Bill and Tommy over there.” 

She points a lazy finger to the two men hunched over a corner booth. 

“They don’t trust new schmucks a whole bunch, but hey, neither does anyone else.” 

Jonathan lets a bit of gratitude slip into his smile. 

“I don’t know, you seem pretty alright with schmucks to me.” 

She snorts at that. 

“Yeah well, when it’s your job to listen to drunks yammer on about their garbage, you have to be   
pretty cool with that kind of thing, you know?” 

He nods. 

“Good, just don’t go expecting everyone to be as chill as I am, ‘kay?” 

She points a pair of finger guns at him and mimes firing them. Jonathan clutches his chest in shock and falls to the granite floor below.

A beat of silence passes. 

Then they both are overcome with childish snickering. Jonathan staggers to his feet clutching his stomach with a smile on his face. 

“Y-yeah. You're a l-lifesaver,” he chokes out between chuckles. 

A shit-eating grin crosses her face. 

“Yeah okay, just don’t come crying to me when someone cuts your ear off for being too nosy, Schmuck Lord.” 

“Sure thing, Buckero,” He calls behind him as he walks over to the far corner of the bar, his boots clacking against the stone ground. 

The two regulars look up from the marble tabletop, swirling with black and white hues, to see the newcomer approaching. They have narrowed eyes, dull and uninteresting clothing, and unmarked bandannas wrapped around their necks, some decent folks to squeeze information from. He relaxes his shoulders and mimics the bartender’s strut. After all, he's Jonathan Spork. 

Stopping in front of the two seated fellows, Jonathan kneels down and places his elbows on the table with his palms balanced under his chin. They continue to squint at him. 

“Soooo… mind if I ask you two gents a couple questions?”

They remain silent.

“I'll take that as a yes. So, what’s the deal with the smell?” 

Dead silence. 

“Okay… any ideas about your wood situation, if that ain't too sensitive?” 

Nada. 

“And the big ass arch thing.” 

Nope. 

“Is there a joke I’m not in on?” 

He looks around at the others, a few pass side eyes his way while the bartender smirks at him with increasing amusement. 

“Okay … I’ll be right back, don’t go missing me.” 

With a bit less spring in his step, Jonathan walks back to the bar. 

“So I was wondering if you could give me-” 

“A Fairy Duster for Mutton Chops over there and a Black Magic for Pencil Beard.” 

She gestures an open palm over to the two beverages sitting inconspicuously beside her. The first is a mix of swirling silver and maroon liquids, probably vodka and punch, encased in a tall glass. The other is a stout glass of almost pure black liquid (liquor maybe?) with ice bobbing on the surface in the embrace of a thin layer of cream. 

“That’ll be two and a half verts.” 

With a roll of his eyes, he digs his hand under his coat and retrieves a small pouch, drawing out a handful of coins. After carefully picking out a few, he smacks a small pile of silver and bronze down on the counter where they rattle in place for a few moments before stopping. The two chrome coins depict a single vertebrae while the sixteen or so bronze coins each are stamped with a molar, root and all. 

Then, she warily scans the bar for a few moments before reaching under the bar and drawing out an opaque, unmarked vial. Carefully uncorking it, she slowly tilts the container over the crimson beverage. Keeping an eye on anyone that might be snooping, she carefully pours a single drop of pitch black fluid into the glass, forming tiny ripples as it disperses. After repeating the process again for the darker beverage, she slips the flask back under the counter and exhales a small sigh of relief. Then the bartender straightens and slides the drinks towards him before replacing her expression with the usual smirk. 

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

Jonathan glances down at the drinks before putting on a knowing smirk. 

“You know it.” 

Upon returning to the corner booth, he slams down both drinks in front of their respective owners. 

“Okay … drink.” 

The two stare at each other from the corner of their eyes, then down at their beverages. The thinner man with the pencil beard gestures to his mutton chopped partner’s glass who glares at him in response. After a few seconds of heated nonverbal debate, the larger of the two concedes and takes a sip. A slight shiver runs down his spine as his posture relaxes a bit and a haze coats his eyes. His partner studies his reaction and, after seeing him not puking blood or any other obvious symptoms of poisoning, takes a tentative sip of his own drink and receives a similar reaction, if a bit more severe.

“He’s not going away, we might as well give him what he wants.” Mutton Chops mumbles out. Pencil Beard looks somewhat betrayed. 

“He’s still an outsider, we don’t know if he’s some kind of lunatic or something!” 

“What’s he going to do, huh? Stab us in a crowded bar?” 

The hairy man says, gesturing a stubby hand towards the other bar goers in the dimly lit room. 

“How should I know? Maybe?” 

“Then why did he buy us drinks first?” 

With little room to argue, Pencil Beard faces Jonathan, none too pleased at the situation. 

“Okay weirdo, ask your damn questions.” 

A pleased smile widens on his face. 

“Okay, what's up with the arch?” 

Mutton Chops sighs into his gaudy beverage. 

“Yep, that's what they usually want to know.”

Pencil Beard rests his hollow cheek on his palm. 

“Look, as far as I know, that thing has always been there.” 

He starts putting up fingers with his free hand. 

“It’s been there since we got here, since the mayor got here, since the original mayor got here. We don’t know where it came from and we’re fine keeping it that way.” 

Jonathan nods acknowledgingly. 

“If you ask me,” Mutton Chops mutters, “someone put it there, like the dark elves or something, never know what they’re up to.” 

Pencil Beard shrugs. 

“Eh, maybe. Not like it matters much now, the thing ain’t exactly going anywhere.” 

“Could probably break it down.” 

“Like hell I’m messing with any of that black magic crap.” 

“You’re just superstitious.” 

“Why don’t you swing a pick at it, see what happens?”

That shuts him up. Seeing a break in the argument, Jonathan continues. 

“And why would anyone build a town in a place like this?” 

A smirk stretches across Mutton Chops’ face. 

“You wouldn’t think it, but this used to be a pretty nice place, good trees, blue skies, fresh air, the like. Then one day everything just went bad. The Rot. It infected the whole damn area. Can’t have a sliver of wood within acres of here without it decaying.” 

A visible shudder runs down Pencil Beard. 

“It wasn’t pretty. One night your chair has a loose leg, then the attic crushes your grandma and you’ve got nowhere to go. It didn’t take long until everyone was sleeping on the streets.” 

“Still think it was some magic crap, dark elf stuff, you know?” 

“You always blame the elves for this shitshow, you know?” 

Mutton Chops’ stubby fingers clench around his glass. 

“And you’re saying I’m wrong?” 

“Hell if I know. Just doesn’t really fit if you ask me. Feels more like an occult thing.” 

Mutton Chops raises an eyebrow. 

“.... occult?” 

“Yeah, I’ve never seen an elf curse an entire town, but those cultists seem like the type to do that kind of stuff.” 

“Have you ever met a cultist?”

“I sure hope not. You never know who is and who isn’t one these days, and after all that Calamity business, I’m not about to stop locking my doors anytime soon.” 

Jonathan nods again. 

“So how was the town rebuilt?” 

Mutton Chops sips his drink. 

“Mayor had to set up some trades with a quarry a ways away. Until then, we were living in tents.”

Jonathan furrows his brows. 

“And no one moved away?” 

“Where to?” Asks Pencil Beard, staring into the pitch black surface of his drink.

“If you stay here, then you’ve got nowhere to go. All we had left was each other.” 

Mutton Chops huffs, a small smile crossing his lips. 

“I can drink to that.” 

Satisfied, Jonathan saunters over to the bar, resting his chin on the counter. The bartender glances up from the glasses she scrubbed to a flawless shine. 

“You found what you were looking for?” 

He stares at the spotless counter and begins tapping his finger against it. 

“Eh, kinda. This place just gets weirder and weirder and no one has a freaking clue why.” 

A small smirk crosses her face as she continues to run a damp rag over the spotless glasses. 

“Yeah, tends to be that way around here. Whatcha gonna do now?” 

He raises himself onto his elbows. 

“What time is it?” 

A concentrated frown crosses her face. 

“Ten or so.” 

Jonathan leans back in his chair. 

“I’ve got a guy I’ll be meeting in a bit.” He smiles. “I think I’ve earned some me-time.” 

\---------- 

A masked figure without a speck of exposed skin tends to attract more than enough lingering glances and quickened paces. This place is no exception. 

Edward feels their eyeballs staring into him and cannot say he appreciates the attention. The gazes predominantly come from the occasional passersby, hunched over and quivering, though a few come from draped windows with the figures squinting through the crevices. Despite the voyeurism, Edward continues forward without missing a step. He has important business after all.

So, as the sun clambers over the horizon, leaving muted colors in its wake, he arrives at the fountain. He already gave the town the once over. It possesses the standard affairs: the butcher, the merchant, the tailor, and the rest, but also possesses a few more specialized outcroppings. Specifically, a curtained shop on secluded street. It emanates a strange air, like treading on the grave of a man still gasping for breath. Quite peculiar. 

This fountain caught his attention earlier with its broken appearance and malfunctioning nature. It depicts a pale cherub with delicate wings strumming a marble harp while standing on a short altar, blowing streams of water from its pursed lips. Or at least it did. Time possesses a habit of laying low both man and their creations until both are merely fractured visages of their former selves. The fountain’s mutilated centerpiece lacks both its hands and wings, each severed from the main body in an unclean and violent fashion. Its face, once beautiful and innocent, possesses deep lines running through the plaster. The stream of liquid, once flowing from its puckered lips, is now inert, leaving only a pool of dark fluid under the sunless sky. 

Absentmindedly, Edward dips a gloved finger in the pool, swirling it slightly. He finds it more viscous than he expects, resembling the texture and consistency of pitch. He lifts the finger from the basin and holds it up to the fading light. A fat drop condenses at its bottom before falling into the liquid below with a wet ‘plop.’ 

Standing, he travels west towards the base of the arch. It takes a lengthy period of time, given its mostorous size, easily a few dozen stories tall. The watching eyes have diminished, their owners sleeping within their cement tombs. After several minutes of travel, he reaches the monument’s base. A scrutinizing gaze reveals the pillar is composed of cobblestone and concrete. Irritatingly, this knowledge does not benefit him in the slightest. 

Running a few fingers along its surface initially achieves similar results. However, as he allows the tips to linger, he experiences a sensation. Like a pebble dropped in a quiet pond, he feels the ripples of … something vaguely familiar yet irritatingly elusive in origin. He drags the fingers off the nonuniform surface and turns his attention to the dirt underneath. The arch's base lies a short distance from the edge of the town, allowing him easy access to the loose dirt. Upon digging, he discovers the arch's wide foundations are buried deep, or at least deeper than four and a half feet. This makes sense, such a monstrous monument needs an equally momentous anchor to prevent it from toppling at the slightest breeze. 

Standing, Edward drifts back towards the town. Perhaps the buffoon made greater headway. Either that or he managed to find himself bruised and bloodied in a nearby ditch. 

A coin flip in his opinion. 

So, Edward finds himself once again engulfed by the dredges of the town while the sun disappears from the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using a d4 to figure out when I post the next chapter. 
> 
> I rolled a one. 
> 
> Posting tomorrow then.
> 
> Originally, Jonathan Spork had the power to destroy half of France.
> 
> Not the equivalent area of half of France, just specifically half of France. 
> 
> Straight down the middle. 
> 
> Except France doesn't exist in this world. 
> 
> Guam does though. 
> 
> It becomes relevant during the baking arc. 
> 
> Trust me.
> 
> Ta ta.


	3. Reprioritizing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No officer, I'm not a member of the Ukrainian mafia, I'm an employee of a for-profit Kneecap Removal Service. 
> 
> And that's just baking soda.

A sliver of moonlight sails through the inky blackness as Jonathan stumbles out of the bar and onto the mud slicked ground. Pushing his back against the building’s worn wall, he shakily pushes himself to his feet. Squinting out over the dim road, illuminated by a stray lantern hung from a metallic pole, he limps toward the distant fountain. 

He sticks to the edge of the road, partially to remain out of sight but mainly to use the storefronts as support in his unstable condition. After managing to bumble his way to the fountain's edge, he kneels before its angelic figurehead and promptly vomits into its basin. The statue seems to glower upon him in the moonlight as he further sullies the fountain's contents. 

“Paying your respects I see,” speaks a familiar echoing voice from behind him.

Lazily flopping his head over his shoulder reveals a masked silhouette standing behind him. 

“It'sss not as if I had anywhere else ta gooo,” he mumbles. 

Edward makes a show of looking around the town square. 

“Are you certain of that?” 

“What’s it fuckin’ matter to you, huh?” Jonathan growls, trying to stand before immediately falling back to the fountain’s edge. 

A sigh comes from Edward’s cloaked form. 

“It does not seem as though you are capable of walking to the inn on your own.”

“If ya carry me I’ll ffffuckn’ cut ya.”

“That will not be necessary.” 

Edward grasps the prone man’s outstretched leg and proceeds to drag him through the muck as Jonathan screams obscenities into the night sky, stirring the wary town from its restless slumber. 

\---------- 

Thankfully, Jonathan the Drunk Maniac ceases struggling as they approach the inn. He would check if the man bumped his head on something sizable once they are situated. 

Upon reaching the building that they will be spending the night in, Edward inspects the building’s exterior. It is a fairly short structure, standing only two floors tall. Its drab coloring made only slightly more appealing by the flaking paint plastered over its weathered surface. To put simply, Edward is less than impressed. However, with little other choice for shelter, he drags the limp body inside. 

The interior decorating is more pleasing by a wide margin, with the bar being low enough to trip over. The lobby attempts to disguise its stone composition as high quality wood with mixed success. The floor remains a pale marble hue, contrasting the brown walls a few shades darker than mahogany to the point of resembling black and lacking any variation in tone. The well lit corners of the room reveal the decently crafted furniture painted with a slightly lighter shade of brown than the walls, adorned with red, flowery cushions. Next to the stairs in the back of the room sits a receptionist desk partially painted in a deep walnut before trailing off about a quarter of the way down, revealing the gray stone underneath. Attending the poorly painted desk sits a gruff looking man with a crescent scar under his eye. His expression and composure of general irritation expresses how little he desires to be here. 

Upon seeing the stranger enter the building, the receptionist straightens in his chair and squints at Edward before drawing his gaze down to the body currently smearing gray muck across the pale floor. 

“He dead?” The man asks, leaning over his desk. 

“That would have certainly made dragging him here easier.” Edward responds, releasing Jonathan's hand where it flops onto the ground with a soft thump. He proceeds to walk to the partially painted desk. 

“How much is a room for two?” 

“How long you stayin’?” 

“One night.” 

“Fifteen verts.” 

He reaches into his cloak and places the required payment on the counter. The receptionist slides him a key embroidered with the number thirty-seven. 

“Second floor, far end of the hall,” the man rambles off. 

Nodding, Edward turns to leave, but stops as he reaches the stairs. 

How could he forget? 

Walking back to the entrance, he picks up Jonathan’s arm and drags him up the stairs, carefully ensuring his head bumps each of the seventeen stone steps. After pacing down the carpeted hall and unlocking the door, he flops the body onto the ground and sits on the rocking chair between the two beds. 

Waking him up now in his drunken state would not reveal much telling information, so Edward lets him snore face down in a small puddle of his own mud. Hopefully he will not drown in it until morning. 

\----------

Unfortunately, Jonathan spluttered awake after a few minutes,only slightly less intoxicated. Whirling around in a confused daze, he surprisingly manages to push himself to his unsteady feet. 

“Oh. You’re awake.” 

“Where the fuck am I?” 

“An inn on the south side of town.” 

“...Oh.” 

“Yes, oh.” 

Taking several seconds to compile his likely scrambled thoughts, Jonathan takes another stab at the common language. 

“Okay, so this town’s fuckin’ weird. It's got a big ol’ arch and shit and some weird frickin’ people. Sooo, here’s what we’re gonna do…” 

Edward makes an educated guess that this grand plan of his will likely cause him to lose a few nonexistent brain cells. 

“We’re gonna be detectives.” 

And there they go. 

He places a hand against his masked face and slowly drags the fingers down. 

“... Explain.” 

“We’re gonna go to the person in charge and say we’re great fuckin’ detectives and we’re gonna solve this case.” 

“You are aware that we are leaving tomorrow, correct?” 

“Soooo? We can do it in a day.” 

“... You are proposing … that we discover what is wrong with this town - for absolutely no reason - in one day.” 

“... Yes.” 

“You are an idiot.” 

“And what’s your amazing plan, Mr … uh … smart … guy?” 

“Leave and face zero consequences.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

“Okay … so on the astronomical chance that we follow your idiotic plan, what do we possibly have to gain?” 

“...Money?” 

“How exactly?” 

“We say we will only do it for a reward.” 

“And how much are you suggesting?” 

“Like, I don’t know… two hundred verts or something?” 

“...” 

“And aren't you curious about what’s up with this wack job town.” 

“Staying any longer than we already have is more foolish than you are.”

“It’ll be like a day, I’m pretty sure we can spare a day.”

“They will gain considerable ground on us.” 

“But think about it, do you really want to keep going with that lingering piece of your mind wondering what could have been? That mystery that was never solved? That question that was never answered? Do you really want to live like that?” 

“...” 

“An itch you just can’t scratch. One that never goes away, no matter how much you try to ignore it. Lingering there. Forever.”

“...Fine, this is completely absurd, but fine.” 

“See, I knew you’d come around.” 

“Shut up and go to sleep before you regret it.” 

\---------- 

It isn't the first time Jonathan woke up with a splitting headache. It isn't the first time he woke up in a puddle either. That didn't make it suck any fuckin’ less though. Seriously, did someone slam his head into a wall a few dozen times? 

Like damn. 

After rolling around in a puddle of what he hoped is mud, he manages to get to his feet. Looking around, he notices the two undisturbed beds, the currently rocking rocking chair, and the smug jackass sitting on it. With the mask it's kinda hard to tell, but when he's got a leg crossed over the other and he’s doing that stupid thing he does with his hands it's pretty obvious he's real fuckin’ smug. 

“Awake again, Mr. Detective?” 

“Okay, A, fuck you, and B, what the hell are you talking about?” 

The Jackass starts rocking even harder. 

“So, you do not remember what occurred last night?” 

Last night, huh? He remembered something about alcohol, a grandma, and puking his guts out into a fountain. The rest was a blur of noise and unclear details. 

“Nah, do you?”

He stops rocking. 

“Due to the fact that I did not ingest enough alcohol to incapacitate a small congregation, I can remember last night’s events just fine.” 

“Look, just because I can't remember shit doesn't mean I spent the entire evening getting shitfaced.” He says as he ruffles through his mudslicked coat, pulling out a small notebook. 

“Before I ever start drinking I always write down what I did earlier that day. Makes remembering shit easier.” Flipping through its pages, he stops on the most recent entry. 

\----------  
\- Edward screwed me out of a sick code name   
\- went to bar   
\- people allergic to fun   
\- bartender spiked drinks w/ liquid madness   
\- no one has a clue where the arch came from (built town under it for some reason)  
\- wood started rotting recently (few years ago?)   
\- people blaming people (the usual)   
\- got drunk

\----------

Jonathan frowns at the list.

Liquid Madness? 

Not a lot of bars have the stuff, mainly the ones in populated areas that the sellers flock to in order to make a quick buck off the desperate and shady. Not the kind of thing that people tend to transport long distances. Not if they don’t want to risk a random occult shakedown at the occasional checkpoint. So where could that bartender have gotten the stuff from all the way out here? 

“So … what did you find?” 

“There might be a couple of especially shady people here and a source for some real dangerous crap.” 

“Does it relate to the town's little problem?” 

“Maybe, maybe. It'd take some legwork to find out.” 

“Well, first we need to speak with the leader of this little town.” 

“Why? I thought we’re leaving today.” 

“A certain individual convinced me that playing detective might be worth my time.” 

“Then they're dumb as dirt and you're fuckin’ gullible.” 

Edward stares at him for a few seconds. The kind of way that makes Jonathan feel that he knows something that he doesn't.

“... You have no idea how right you are. Now put on a fresh set of clothes, we are leaving in five minutes.” 

“You have the clothes.” 

This results in Jonathan getting a freshly folded stack of clothing thrown in his face, smelling vaguely of ozone. 

A change of clothes later and they're walking back to the town square. The place still smells like rotting garbage, but he’ll just have to deal with that. Isn’t doing any favors for his headache though. It hurt so bad he can't cook up a half baked metaphor to describe it. The town is even more drab when he could see it clearly in the morning glare, just a bunch of gray structures and brown dirt, entirely uninteresting. Passing the busted fountain puts them in front of a building twice as wide as the inn, with an entrance flanked by twin marble pillars. 

“So what? Just go in and say we’re detectives or whatever.” 

“That is the plan, yes.” 

“No script or anything?” 

“My my, and I was under the impression that the great Jonathan Spork, ‘Didn’t need no bitch ass script.’” 

“Fine. When this blows up in our faces I’m shoving my boot right up your pretentious ass.” 

“Good luck with that.” 

Upon walking into what he assumes is the town hall, he’s struck by how empty the lobby is. No furniture, no paint, no accessories, there’s not even a speck of dirt on the floor, just a door on the other side of the gray room. Shaking off his initial confusion, Jonathan lumbers towards the door. The thing has a brass ring knocker and a metal slit in it, like a mix of a prison door and a gate. Not seeing any other way forward, he slams the knocker a few times. A low groan followed by footsteps resonate from the other side. The slit opens to reveal an eye the color of the leaves that no longer exist here. 

“What do you want?” An exhausted feminine voice says. 

“Are you in charge here?” 

“No, I just sit behind this heavy duty door and twiddle my thumbs all day, what do you think?” 

“I think you should open the door and speak with us directly.”

“Did you schedule an appointment.” 

“Do you have any appointments?” 

“Well I am the mayor, so yes, I have many citizens to counsel.” 

“So you’ve talked to your plebs recently.”

“They are my citizens and yes, that is what counseling means.” 

“Then why’s the floor so clean?” 

“...Excuse me?” 

“If you’ve talked to anyone that either means you left the room or someone came over. The floor was spotless when we came in so neither of those things happened recently. So you ain’t all that fuckin’ busy.” 

Silence. Then the Mayor chuckles through the metallic barrier. 

“You got me there. Hold on, I'll open the door.” She says, followed by the telltale clicks of an unnecessary amount of locks unlocking. 

With a grunt, the Mayor heaves open the door while it screeches in protest. A slightly winded woman stands on the other side. Her glasses a bit askew on her pointed nose as she straightens her posture and dusts off her scholarly robes. 

“My apologies, it's been a little while since I last opened that door.” 

She turns and begins walking deeper into the depths of the solitary room. 

“Come, you must have much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I rolled another one. 
> 
> Another daily upload it is then. 
> 
> Tips and tricks when being mugged. 
> 
> Don't panic and follow these instructions. 
> 
> If the assailant expresses any threat of physical violence, immediately rip off a chunk of your pelvis and commit insurance fraud. 
> 
> The lack of any and all logical discourse and the inhuman strength required to both shatter and tear a bone fragment out of your body will cause them to flee in both bewilderment and raw terror. 
> 
> When questioned by equally confused paramedics assuming you have yet to lose consciousness, claim the assailant caused the irreparable damage to your person. 
> 
> You may require a cane, multiple surgeries, and immense amount of hospital stay, but you can say with complete certainty that you were not mugged. 
> 
> And that's all that matters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High treason, a bop it, and musical chairs. 
> 
> These have nothing to do with each other. 
> 
> But they are all in my bucket list.

If a tornado tore through the royal library and deposited its contents in the confines of an unlit prison cell, well … that’d give a pretty good picture of the room they’re standing in, wouldn't it? 

Books, lots of books, covering almost every inch of floor, stacked to chest level in some places, litter the room. 

Apparently the concept of a bookshelf is beyond the Mayor. 

Not that that seems to bother her as she steps between the literary landmines with a practiced grace, easily making her way to the desk in the back of the room and sitting down, next to the suspiciously smoking trash can in the corner. 

Squinting at the ground, barely illuminated by the light draining in from the slot in the door, Jonathan struggles to pull together a plan of attack in his hangover diluted brain. 

Meanwhile, Edward seems to study the path she took, takes a moment to deliberate, and promptly plows through the stacks of literature obstructing his path. 

Zero fucks given apparently.

Sighing, Jonathan follows the cloaked man’s path of destruction to the desk. Just seeming to notice the clutter, the Mayor scans the room for any place for the visitors to sit. She gives up on that remarkably quickly. 

“You can just stand there, if that works for you.” 

Rubbing his temples in an attempt to focus, Jonathan leads the conversation. 

“Look, I've got one hell of a headache so I'm gonna make this pitch real quick.” 

He takes a deep breath and looks the bespeckled woman right in the eyes. 

“We’re…  _ Detectives _ .” 

This is such a stupid idea. Who the hell came up with it? 

Crossing her fingers over one another, forming a bridge, the Mayor appears relatively intrigued, if skeptical. 

“Detectives, you say? What business do you have here?” 

“Well, we were passing through this little town of yours and noticed you had a few problems that we were willing to … investigate.” 

“If that is the case, I would like to see some form of identification. My apologies, but a masked man and an unshaven fellow in a coat do not immediately pass for detectives in my book.” 

… Well shit. Hurdle number one is about to take him out at the knees. 

“What kind of identification are you referring to?” 

“Some kind of badge or certificate comes to mind. This is a common practice for a detective, wouldn't you say?” 

“Yeah… about that… uhh…” 

Think of something goddammit!

“...How do we know you're the real mayor?” 

“...Excuse me?” 

… That … could have gone worse.

“I mean … think about it. You barricade yourself in a room, you clearly haven't been in contact with the weirdos of this town, and I haven't seen a single piece of identification from you. So why should I show you my badge if I haven't seen yours?” 

Silence. The thin rays of light illuminate her narrow eyed expression. 

Then she stands, lightly places her hands on the table, and leans towards the two. Despite being roughly the same height, Jonathan suddenly feels very small. 

“You want my identification, hmm? Ask anyone. When this town fell and the last mayor turned his back on us, who took charge and unified us? 

Me. 

Who brought us back from nothing when we were on the brink of starvation? 

Me. 

Who spearheaded the rebuilding process? 

Me. 

So don't you  _ dare  _ treat me like some common fraud.” 

Silence returns with a vengeance. 

“Now, either you give me a reason to believe your little story or leave this room,  _ permanently _ .”

Jonathan's throat feels very dry. He doesn't know whether to feel angry or guilty or afraid. What he does know is that there is nothing he can say that can convince this woman of his lie. 

“I-” 

Jonathan hears a slow clapping sound from next to him. Slowly turning his head reveals Edward casually slamming his hands together while staring directly at the Mayor. 

“An adequate performance Deputy Pork, but you still lack resistance against intimidation techniques.”

As the two stare at him, one with rage and the other with vague surprise, he reaches into his cloak and draws out a copper rectangle marked with the words ‘Detective: Southern Division.’ 

Gesturing to Jonathan, he says, “I deputized this young man rather recently, he lacks a great deal of experience but it can hardly be helped.” 

He places a gloved hand on Jonathan's shoulder. 

“I frequently test his interrogation skills on random individuals to keep him on his toes.” 

His grip tightens ever so slightly. 

“In the field of improvisation, however, he remains woefully lacking.”

Satisfied, The Mayor sits back down. 

“I see, I apologize for my outburst earlier, very unprofessional.” 

She straightens in her seat. 

“Let us discuss the terms of your involvement.” 

Well, this has been a fucking roller coaster of emotions, hasn't it? Jonathan takes a small step forward. 

“Okay, first of all, we ain't doing this out of the goodness of our hearts.” 

She nods. 

“Understandable. You will receive one hundred verts if you discover the cause of the problem. One hundred and fifty if you identify a solution.” 

Jonathan crosses his arms. 

“We'll need an advance payment or no deal.”

“And why is that exactly?” 

“Look ‘Miss Mayor,’ in our line of work you can get screwed out of a reward because the bastard who said they'll pay you cheaps out. We want insurance for when things go south.” 

“All right, how much are you proposing?” 

“Fifty now, whatever else you offered us when we're done.” 

“Fifty in advance. Fifty if you discover the source of the problem. One hundred if you fix it.” 

“My offer or we walk.” 

“... How about this. My offer but anything within reason that you declare as evidence, you can keep if you solve the problem.” 

“...Fine. Deal. But I want written authority on that.” 

“Of course.” 

The Mayor opens one of the drawers on her desk, removes a sheet of paper, and starts scribbling. After a few moments, she slides over a piece of paper. 

\---------- 

By Decree of the Mayor 

Any law enforcement actively investigating the Rot Incident are hereby given legal authority to declare any item, within reasonable limit and value, as evidence. Withheld evidence can remain in the custody of said law enforcement until they can declare the incident closed with absolute certainty.

_Kaitlin_ _Spark_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rolled a two. 
> 
> Has anyone ever driven a Zamboni down a flight of stairs?
> 
> Has anyone attempted to evade the police in a Zamboni? 
> 
> Has anyone done their taxes on a Zamboni? 
> 
> Asking for a friend.


	5. Little Chats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I found a religion called The Church of Last Thursday. 
> 
> Basically, it states that everything was created last Thursday and will be destroyed again the following Thursday, only to be born again that Thursday. 
> 
> Oh, and being left handed is heresy.

Jonathan steps out of the dimly lit pseudo-library and into the afternoon haze with a slightly heavier coin pouch and a legal loophole hanging from his fist. He slumps against one of the pillars and slides to the ground. 

That was far more effort than it was feasibly worth. He needs a damn breather. 

As he lounges against the stone obelisk, the paper slips from his loose grip. Slowly looking up, he notices that goddamn mask silhouetted against the cerulean sky with that stupid parchment pinched between his fingers. Jonathan lets out a long, hard sigh. It isn't even noon yet and it's already too late for this. 

“Just… just take it. I don't give a fuck anymore.” 

Edward gingerly tucks the scrap into his bottomless cloak, 

“Thank you kindly,” 

And strolls away through the mud caked streets. 

He'll deal with that later. He needs a minute. 

\----------

Well. Now Edward possesses a tool to steal valuables without consequence. 

Technically speaking, he could already achieve that, but this makes it all far easier. 

Oh, and he can investigate more easily as well, such a forgettable thing, really. 

Now, where to go first? He's not exactly choosy so he picks a house at random on the other side of the square and knocks. Edward senses the person inside rise from their cot, take several dragging steps forwards, and a scruffy man several inches taller than himself opens the door. As he stands there, Edward recognizes a familiar crescent scar and an irritated demeanor. 

“You are the receptionist from the inn, correct?” 

The man, squinting at him through the afternoon glare, nods. 

“Yep, what do ya want?”

“Ideally to enter your establishment and ask you a few questions.” 

He scrunches his brow and shoots Edward a suspicious look. 

“And if I say no?” 

“Then you will be found guilty of obstructing the justice of an officer of the law and tried before the highest court I can personally drag you into.” 

The man considers this proposition for a moment and likely decides that getting into a dispute with a masked interloper claiming to be an officer is probably not a good use of his time. 

“Fine, come in.” 

He follows the receptionist in without further comment. The house is reasonably well kept, with a coat of fresh brown paint and small accessories lining the walls. The most prominent being the dust covered, double sided axe mounted on the far side of the room, its edges remaining sharp likely due to its lack of apparent use. 

Curious. He wonders how he can spin it as ‘evidence.’ 

“You can sit over there.” 

The man gestures towards a round table near the bed in the corner of the room. Obliging, they both sit down. Edward initiates the conversation. 

“That is a very fine axe you have there.” 

The receptionist glances to it before letting out a slightly proud huff. 

“Yeah, my grandfather's. Bit of a wild man before he turned over a new leaf.” 

“Oh.”

“Became a lumberjack. Rest of the family followed in his footsteps.” 

“Not much of that recently, I take it.” 

The smile slides off his face, being replaced with gritted teeth. 

“You can thank the damn rot for that. Bad for business.” 

“Do you have any theories regarding its cause.”

His expression becomes even more sour. 

“If ya ask me, it's those damn forest bastards.” 

Edward gets the feeling that this conversation is about to head off on a major tangent. 

“When we started work, they whined about ‘sacred forest’ this and ‘nature god’ that.’ We'd gotten legal authority to work here and we weren't stopping because a bunch of tree hugging pushovers tried to tell us what to do. They even poisoned the forest just to spite us before turning tail and running like the cowards they are! You got that, detective?” 

“Certainly.”

“Good.” 

The man leaned back in his chair with a sigh. 

“Sorry about that, just been real pent up these days. Ever since it happened, the family's had to find new work, ain't a whole lot of demand for chopping rotting trees, ya know?” 

Edward nods, looking back at the wall. 

“Would you mind if I examined that axe?” 

The woodsman glaces at the mounted blade gathering dust. 

“Knock yerself out, just don't drop it.” 

Standing up, Edward carefully unlatches the axe’s straps and gingerly pulls it down with the tenderness of carrying a newborn. 

“A beauty, right?” 

The masked figure examines the honed blade with a noticeable intensity. 

“Oh yes.” 

“Father used to tell me he could still smell the dried blood from the raids when his father gave it to-”

Edward is no longer listening, the only thing in the room is himself and this delectable blade. 

“...yes, quite, I will be taking this.” 

A moment of silence. 

“What?”

Oh, he needs to respond. How bothersome. 

“This axe has been used in the recent decades, correct?” 

He opens his mouth, but Edward cuts him off. 

“Then this axe still retains the magic residue from whatever poisoned the forest. Therefore, I will take this to the local mage and have it properly examined.” 

“Then have ‘em do it here.” 

“I cannot do that because… well… they would need to bring all their equipment here, heavy, irreplaceable equipment.” 

The man's face is now completely devoid of amusement, having been replaced with an annoyance bordering on anger.

“Okay pal, let me put this in words you can understand.” 

He leans forward and speaks in slow, heavy syllables. 

“You can take this axe out of my sight…” 

He stretches his body over the table until he is almost nose to mask with the detective.

“Over. My. Dead. Body.” 

...

A moment of silence causes the air to stand still. 

...

Then Edward leans back and places his hand into his cloak while the beetle black lenses of his pale mask stare at a spot just behind his companion. 

“Can you read, Mr … Axe, I assume?” 

The sound of grinding teeth permeates the stagnant air. 

“Rampage.” 

“Of course. Well Mr. Rampage…” 

He draws out a handwritten scrap of paper signed at the bottom. 

“Can you read this, or is mutilating defenseless trees and wasting my time the extent of your expertise?” 

“You're really trying my patience…” 

He clenches one shaking fist as he scans the parchment, rage slowly giving way to confusion and disbelief. 

“This is-” 

“Authorization from your mayor that allows me to procure any object I deem as necessary for the investigation. And this...” 

Edward taps the axe, causing it to rattle slightly on the table. 

“Is very useful to the investigation. So…” 

He places a gloved hand flat on the table, the digits extended at slightly absurd angles.

“There is nothing stopping me from taking this axe and walking out of this shack right now. Your dead body included. Am I understood?” 

\---------- 

After his break, Jonathan walks through the streets of the town that, while not exactly bustling, are populated by its careful and evasive folk. He should really get a bandanna like the ones they wear, it’ll probably make it easier to breathe. A thought for another time. 

With each footfall bringing him closer, he reaches the tavern in decent time. Pushing open the rusted door brings back distorted memories of shifting eyes and trickling black ooze. The room is emptier than last night, housing only a few muttering drunkards. The bartender is still there, absentmindedly polishing her glasses in a slow swivel. He has business with her. The low clatter of his boots draws her attention from her idle work, a crooked smirk crossing her previously bored complexion. 

“Sooo, Mr. Swan Dive returns. Surprised you're still walkin’ after last night.” 

Great, what did he do this time? He takes a seat and puts an elbow on the counter. 

“Yeah, about that, mind telling me what happened last night. It's all kinda blurry.” 

She has to cover her mouth to stop herself from bursting out in laughter. 

“D-dear gods you don’t remember.” 

She pounder the counter a few times while Jonathan sits there, feeling vaguely humiliated. 

“Okay, I'm good. Wooo. Okay, here's what went down.” 

She props her elbows on the counter and places her hands under her chin, forming a bridge. 

“Yeah, you got real fuckin’ smashed and started talking about how you were going to- going to jump through space and time.” 

She struggles to maintain her composure. 

“So you- oh my gods- so you stood on a chair and just fuckin’ nose dived straight into the ground!” 

And she is losing it again. Clutching her stomach, she completely loses her shit while onlookers smirk at his expense. The bastards. 

After a solid thirty seconds of snickering, she straightens her back and puts her hands on the counter, still wearing a massive shit-eating grin. 

“Yeah, you sure as shit made my night. What can I do for ya?” 

Finally, an opportunity. Leaning forward, Jonathan begins his interrogation. 

“Well, I recall you having a certain, let’s just say, liquid something or other, if you catch my drift.” 

Yeah, that wipes that smirk off her face. 

“Oh yeah, guess you saw that, didn't take you for a snitch though.” 

He waves his hands in front of his face defensively. 

“Hey, I get it, I really do. You gotta get some of the good stuff to turn a profit around these parts. Makes a guy wonder where you got it all from, though.” 

She crosses her arms, a suspicious frown crossing her face. 

“And what's it to you?” 

He smiles. 

“Would you believe me if I said I was a traveling detective following a lead?” 

An amused expression covers her face.

“Oh really? And what case are you following, Mr. Detective?” 

“The town that lost its wood.” 

She smirks even harder.

“That sounds like a serious condition.” 

Jonathan follows suit.

“Heh, I'd think you'd know. Weren't you here when it happened?” 

The smirk is replaced with a slightly concentrated stare as she holds her chin between her fingers. 

“No actually, I came here a few months ago. This place ain't great, but it's a decent getaway for people who want to disappear for a while.” 

“Such as?” 

The smirk returns with a vengeance.

“Let's just say I got busted serving some ingredients of… questionable legality.” 

“Like last night?” 

She shrugs dismissively.

“Hey, I ain't fixin’ what ain't broken.” 

“Fair enough. But you know, for such a hardened criminal, you're pretty loose lipped.” 

For the first time, the bartender’s nonchalant demeanor cracks a little. Being replaced with a thoughtful expression as she stares towards the counter.

“Yeah, well, I had you pinned for someone like me, someone down on their luck and lookin’ for a place to hide out for a while. Someone who knows when to look the other way, ya know?” 

“Well, you're kinda right. We're leavin’ tomorrow. Got someplace to go. Unfinished business with someone that fucked with me.” 

Her amused smirk paints itself back on, this time with a slightly raised brow.

“So, you're one of those vengeance types. Who you goin’ for anyways.” 

“A real big time guy. Like, capital big.” 

“Capital, huh...”

She taps her chin in concentration, before her eyes widen a fraction.

“Wait. Don't tell me you're gunnin' for the ki-” 

“Up, up, up.” 

He puts a palm over her open lips.

“Not in public. It's still a grass roots kinda thing.” 

Upon taking it away, a half awed, half amused look covers her face, like someone watching a gladiator squaring off against a unicycle.

“Well, holy shit. You've got one hell of a climb ahead of ya. Literally and metaphorically. I’ll be rootin’ for ya though.” 

Good, she won't call the guards. Or guard, singular. He hasn't seen any others beside that one guy that greeted them when they first got here.

“Thanks, but back on track. The liquid you know what, where did you get it?” 

She puts a fist in front of her mouth in thought, seeming indecisive, before shrugging and looking back at him. 

“Well, you shared your bit so I'll share mine. I kept some of my stash when I booked it outta town, but you wouldn't believe it...” 

She leans forward and cups her palm, as if telling a secret. 

“I found a dealer here.” 

Well, what’d you know.

“Really? What'd they look like.” 

She stands up straight and gestures to the rest of her body.

“All black. Like robes, shoes, a veil I think...” 

She pokes a spot right under her eye.

“Couldn't see their face.” 

“How'd you meet them?”

She points a thumb towards a door in the back corner of the bar, behind the counter.

“In the alley out back. Was throwing out the trash when they showed. Almost gave me a damn heart attack. Then they offered their prices and I wasn't about to turn down a good deal. Like I'm talkin’ dirt cheap, thirty verts for a bottle kinda cheap, usually triple that in the city.” 

“And what did you do then?” 

“Started meeting ‘em there every couple weeks. Stuff's extra potent so it takes a while to go through it all. Haven't seen ‘em lately though, pretty much vanished.” 

“Any idea where I could find them?” 

She smirks, leaning forward on her palm again.

“Heh, you're in luck. One of the last times I saw ‘em, I tracked ‘em down to that old occult shop on the far side of town. Was curious where they were getting their stock.” 

“Well, thanks. I'll get out of your hair.” 

For one of the first times, she smiles, genuine this time.

“Yeah, but keep an eye over your shoulder …

She grimaces a bit.

“That place gives me the creeps.” 

Jonathan nods and starts turning around in his stool, before looking over his shoulder.

“One last thing, how long are you stickin’ around here for?” 

That thoughtful look, maybe a little wistful this time, returns.

“Few weeks probably. After that, who knows?” 

Satisfied, Jonathan climbs off his stool and strolls towards the door, but stops next to one of the marble topped tables, glancing down at its contents.

“You mind if I take some of these?” 

The bartender cranes her neck to see what he's looking at and snorts. 

“Sure, whatever, ain't my bar.” 

With that, Jonathan shoves the table's worth of silverware into a small sack around his waist, and shuffles towards the door, stopping at the precipice. He puts up a palm in farewell, before stepping out into the evening air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rolled a one. 
> 
> Again. 
> 
> RNJesus why must you make me upload daily? 
> 
> In the animated film Space Jam, Bugs Bunny convinces the other players that a random bottle of water will make them good at basketball. 
> 
> This was the first time many of us have observed the placebo effect in action. 
> 
> Very Scientific. 
> 
> Then again, Micheal Jordan extended his arm across the entire court Stretch Armstrong style thirty minutes later, so what do I know?


	6. A New Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm divided between saying "I was tired for two months" and "I regret nothing." 
> 
> So I'll say both. 
> 
> I regret being tired for two months.

The sun flees over the rapidly looming horizon as Jonathan approaches the recently defunct fountainhead at the center of town. Not much else to do but wait, anything else would require the cloaked jackass to stop fucking around and get over here. 

The occult shop is a promising lead, but detectives probably need more evidence than just the last known location of some bargain bin occult dealer, his own damn shop. They need warrants and all that bureaucratic shit. Better go with the whole leaving no stone unturned thing until they can ask the Mayor to break into their business. Do people still hide things under stones? Maybe gnomes, but who is he to say? 

The thunderous rattling sound of a metal door slamming open draws his eyes to a building on the other side of the square. Jonathan watches in minor bewilderment as Edward marches out of the gray house, quiet as a feather, while a man taller than the door screams something unintelligible in rage and pain before wrenching it shut with a clang. 

Based on that reaction, the jackass either lectured that maniac about some existential bullshit or he stole something. The axe he’s clutching in both hands like a newborn baby suggests the latter. Edward also doesn't seem to notice where he's going, solely focused on the weapon until his boots bump into the rim of the fountain, causing him to snap to attention as if coming out of a daze. 

“Ah, Jonathan, I did not see you there.” 

Jonathan glances down at the axe, noticing a few splotches of crimson on the flat of the blade, and back up at him, with a matching splotch on the cheek of his mask. 

Son of a bitch, this got complicated. 

“Edward, I need you to think very carefully about this. How many bones did you break?” 

“. . . What are you referring to-” 

“I can see the blood.” 

“Please, I hardly even scratched him.” 

“How. many.” 

“. . . One. His nose is fractured. The rest is just minor bruising and damaged pride.” 

Jonathan slowly and quietly exhales. 

“Now, was that so hard?” 

“I can hardly see why this matters.” 

“You were the one that wanted to lay low, and then you go and pull this shit.”

“We were given a document that legalized theft. Not utilizing it is practically a crime.” 

“We were given it because this town is fucking broke! They can’t afford fucking paint for gods’ sake! They didn’t have the cash so they compensated.” 

“Regardless, they did give us it.” 

“. . . You’re missing the point by such a margin, I wouldn’t be surprised if you shoved your head up your ass just to avoid it, you braindead kleptomaniac.” 

“. . . Now you are just being rude.” 

A long sigh reverberates from Jonathan’s throat as he slaps a hand over his face and slowly drags it down.

“You know what? I don’t care anymore, let’s just finish up here so we can put this shitshow behind us.”

And after hearing that, Edward promptly turns on his heel and marches off in the other direction. 

“And where the fuck do you think you're going?” 

Struggling slightly, Edward draws the axe and cocks it slightly to the side in a shaky two handed grip. 

“I said I would have this axe analysed by the local mage. Regardless of my initial intent, I will see it done. Satisfied, Mr. Detective?” 

“Oh for the love of-” Jonathan mumbles. “Get back here. I’m coming with you.” He yells after his masked partner, jogging to catch up. 

“That will not be necessary, I have this whole situation under control.” He remarks without looking back. 

“Like what happened two minutes ago?” 

“He was resisting the authority of an officer of the law. He received his dues.” 

“You’re not an officer! You aren't even a detective!” 

“My shiny badge begs to differ.” 

Jonathan proceeds to groan into his hands. 

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen. Once we find this hypothetical mage, I’ll be handling it.” 

“You are going to fail. Miserably.” 

“At least I won’t assault a civilian.” 

“I fail to see how that alters the inevitability of your failure.” 

“Your negativity is as helpful as ever, Jackass.”

\----------

The sun’s last light flares over the sky in a flash of orange and red as the duo knocks door to door like a pair of Fairy Scouts. It seems as though a town of distrustful fugitives are less than willing to answer their doors at seven o’clock in the evening. Fortunately, after a five minute long screaming match between Jonathan and an old woman in a nightgown holding a crossbow, they manage to discern that there is allegedly a, “Magic man or some shit, I don’t know, get off my property!” on the far side of town. 

So with a stroll in the dimming evening light behind them, Edward graciously allows his deputy to take the lead in approaching the twelfth door that night. Only to find possibly the strangest building in this entire backwards town. 

A tree. 

Or to be more accurate, a massive stump, with bundles of leaves adorning its roof. Upon closer inspection, the “wood” is covered in a series of elaborate, clustered scratch marks, most abundant on the door. 

Rather curious, Edward places a palm on such grouping, only recognizing the vaguely familiar carvings a bit too late. With a spark of blue light, thorny vines protrude from what he now recognizes as a hastily drawn rune and slam his gloved hand into the wall with enough force to crack the painted stone. The unnaturally bent position of the fingers provides the slightest inclination of its obvious fracturing, a pity.

“Thirty-seven.” he mumbles irritatedly as Jonathan stumbles back in alarm. 

“Holy shit. Did this crazy bastard booby trap his whole damn shack?” 

Edward attempts to flex the misaligned fingers. They remain immobile. 

“Interesting theory, Jonathan. Have you considered touching the hovel directly to test it? This could simply be an unfortunate fluke.”

Just after he finishes saying this, he notices someone stir from inside the hut, grab an object off what he assumes is a table, and hobble towards the door. Meanwhile, Jonathan kneels on the ground squinting, likely searching the ground near the entrance for more runes, positioning himself directly in front of the door.

“Get away from the door, Jonathan.” 

He looks at him mildly confused. 

“What? Why?” 

Before Edward could respond, the door slams open, almost hitting Jonathan in the face before he can dive backwards. 

Standing there is an elderly looking man with a gray beard reaching just above his navel and holding a leather bound book in one hand and a sinister curved knife in the other. Pointing the book at Jonathan and the knife at him, the old man screeches, “Which one of you little bastards touched my stump!?” 

Dead silence. 

The old man squints at Edward, with his unresponsive hand remaining bolted to the stump. 

. . .

Why must life be so difficult?

“Yes, as you can clearly see, I have in no way, shape, or form touched this stump.” He says in the dryest tone he can muster. “You clearly have no evidence of my involvement. And no conveniently placed witnesses to convict me.” 

Edward stares at Jonathan how he imagines an ensnared tiger would stare at another, nearby rabbit. With absolute contempt. 

“Isn’t that right?”

Jonathan looks at Edward, hand still pinned to the wall, then over to the old man, who is currently pointing a knife at him, and then back to Edward. 

“Why don’t we let the old man make his own conclusions about this situation?” 

The wrinkly flesh sack swings his head over to Jonathan. 

“Who are you calling old? I’m only like . . . a hundred and six . . . okay that’s kinda old, but not the point! What are you two nitwits doing on my property?” 

Regaining his composure as quickly as someone with their rear firmly planted on the ground can, Jonathan leads the conversation. 

“Well, we are detectives here to ask you a few questions about the whole . . . forest rotting thing.” 

The rapidly expiring blood bag squints harder at his fallen adversary. 

“And how do I know this isn't another harebrained ploy to burn my house down?” 

Edward gestures a free hand at ruined wall. 

“I shudder to think of the dedication it would require to incinerate a stone building.” 

The outdated meat sack tugs at his beard and mumbles under his breath. 

“That is true, but after that arsonist menace ravaged everything I held dear I’m not taking any chances.” 

Edward reaches his remaining hand into his cloak and draws out the badge, throwing it towards his partner where it skids to a stop in the dirt between his feet. He picks it up and faces it towards the knife wielding senior. Said senior leans in very close to read the engraved letters, his gnarled nose almost nudging its edge. 

“Fair enough. Why did it take you two so long to get here? This shit’s been going on for a long damn time.” 

Jonathan makes a placating gesture, which is fairly effective when he’s on the ground. 

“Trust me when I say this is the first we heard of this. We were on our way to the next city over when we stumbled over this place.” 

Irritated, the glassy eyed man kicked a bit of dirt and grumbled to himself. 

“Damn stupid government too busy chasing stupid cults and tax evaders to worry about their own damn people.” 

Alright, this has gone on for long enough. 

“If it's all the same to you, I would appreciate you releasing an officer of the law.” 

“Huh?” The geezer grunts, just now acknowledging his predicament. 

“Oh, that. Give me a second, impatient little . . .” 

His voice dissipates as he opens his book to a random page and thumbs through it, squinting at the wording. After a few moments, the old man ceases his flipping and places a hand on the rune binding him. A string of unintelligible words disperse from his bearded lips as his eyes remain pinned to the equally obtuse literature. Once he falls silent, another flash of blue sparks bursts forth from the engraving and the vines loosen, becoming absorbed back into the wall as the scratches that summoned them glow in a final cerulean luminescence before vanishing. 

Edward retracts the arm, fingers and wrist slack and dangling. The scratches in the gloves reveal underlying unpleasantness through the gaps. 

“There, now stop whining and come in.” 

With that, the old man walks through the still open door. Jonathan, having stood up and gingerly brushed himself off, walks through first, leaving Edward alone outside. With little other recourse, he follows the deputy, arm limp by his side as the sun winks out of existence behind the mountainside beyond, plunging the world into darkness once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the dice idea is dumb and we're not doing that anymore. 
> 
> I'll just make uploads based on my own questionable sense of time and productivity. 
> 
> But I can say with complete honesty that the next chapter won't take two months. 
> 
> More like a week. 
> 
> Maybe two. 
> 
> Depends on how motivated I am.


End file.
